


Nothing gold can stay

by Ferrera



Series: Like love or lemonade [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 14:35:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18054347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrera/pseuds/Ferrera
Summary: Set the day afterLike love or lemonade. I recommend reading that one first if you haven't. I'll hopefully come up with some sort of summary later.





	Nothing gold can stay

**Author's Note:**

> Set the day after _Like love or lemonade_. I recommend reading that one first if you haven't. I'll hopefully come up with some sort of summary later.

  
He wakes up to the sun shining through the curtainless window. His head feels like it's stuffed full of cotton, mind cloudy. There's a dull ache in his body, a throb in his thigh and a sour taste in his mouth, but it's only when he sees Sammy in the other bed that the clouds in his hazy mind disappear and he remembers what happened last night.

God, Sammy. Innocent little Sammy, who had been sleeping peacefully as Dean had slipped off the reservation, dreaming of making friends in school, getting a dog, and god knows what else Sammy dreams of, while Dean had been sitting in his dad's lap, doing things he probably couldn't even imagine.

He's awake now, lying on his tummy, reading a book that probably won’t be on his reading list for another couple years. He doesn't seem to have noticed that Dean has woken up, still completely in his own little world, no idea of what his big brother got up to last night. He's already dressed, lying on top of the sheets in washed-out jeans and a hoodie that used to be Dean's, pajamas neatly folded on the chair by the end of the bed. He must've been up for a while.

God, what time is it? Why hasn't Dad woken him up?

Dean closes his eyes again before Sam will see he's awake, tries to relax into the mattress, keeping his breathing even.

He'd hardly thought of Sammy last night. When he'd been sitting in his dad's lap, drinking in the words he'd said, the low, rumbling sound of his voice, the feeling of his strong hands all over his thighs, his chest, his face— there was no thinking past that, no thinking about tomorrow, about having to face his baby brother in the morning.

Everything had felt sweet and slow, dark and dreamlike,  _Dean's_ kind of dream. A dream he wouldn't wake up from, as if there'd be no tomorrow, no consequences, no shame.

God, how can he look his baby brother in the eyes after he—

He can't even think about it now without his heart speeding up, cheeks flushing hot and shame pooling in his gut. After Dad had put his big, big hand on him, touched him, made him  _come_ , he'd just let Dean rest against him, and Dean's pretty sure Dad would've left it at that, if  _he_  hadn't started grinding down on his lap. But he’d felt the thick, hot press of his dad's cock against his butt, and the thought of turning Dad on, of Dad  _wanting_  him, had sparked a sick sort of pride inside his chest, and he'd only wanted to chase that feeling.

_Dean_ , Dad had said,  _you should go to bed, kiddo_ , but it had sounded nothing like his usual orders, and he hadn't stopped Dean from rocking in his lap.

There's a million things Dad could've said to make him touch him— orders, sharp remarks, even the slightest encouragement would have been enough, but he didn’t need to say a single word. Dean had watched his dark, dark eyes slowly falling closed, heard the low moan coming from deep inside, and that was all it took for Dean to lean back and place his hand on the denim-clad swell of Dad’s cock. No coercion needed; easy like some of the girls he picks up, pliant and willing like a good boy.

He'd unbuckled Dad's belt with shaky hands, slowly pulled the zipper of his jeans down over the thick swell of his cock. His hands had been clammy as he'd pulled those black boxers down, Dad's big, thick cock slapping against his stomach, so hard because of  _him_. The  _fuck, kiddo_ that fell from his lips as Dean wrapped his hand around it still rings in his ears, but it’s nothing like the  _good boy_ that followed after Dean had made him come with just his hand on his cock and his wet, panting mouth presses to Dad's neck, promising so much more. An overwhelming feeling of pride and validation had soared through his veins, more vital than oxygen.

It's still there, that bliss of last night, but it's mixed with guilt and shame now, coiling in the pit of his stomach, almost sickening, and he groans into the pillow, tries to will it away. Not now, not in the brightness of the day, not where he has to look Sammy in the eyes.

“Dean?”

Sam's voice sounds soft and pure, untainted like Dean's once must have been.

“Are you awake?”

There's no use in stalling. Dean gives a confirming grunt, turns on his side, facing his baby brother. Sam's tender voice and the look of childish surprise on his face are rather sobering, pushing away the excitement and pride, only leaving room for a burning, gut-wrenching shame.

“Sammy,” he croaks, propping himself up on his forearms, “what time is it?”

Sam closes his book and sits up, socked little feet dangling off the bed.

“Dunno, twelve-ish? How are you? Dad said it wasn't the easiest hunt—”

“ _Sammy_ ,” Dean groans, brushing a hand over his warm face. “Why didn't he wake me?”

“He said you needed some sleep,” Sam says dutifully. Dean feels his gaze on him as he pushes the blanket off of himself and sits up on the side of the bed. Sam's eyes glide from his face to his neck, his chest, down to his ridden-up boxers and his wide-splayed thighs.

Dean swallows hard. He's still wearing what he’d been wearing as he sat in his dad's lap last night, what he’d been wearing as Dad made him spill fucking everywhere. He feels his cheeks heating up at the memory, tries his hardest to keep his eyes on Sam's. He can't risk glancing down to check for stains that might or might not be visible to his baby brother.

“Did it hurt you?” Sam asks in a small voice, eyes coming to a rest on the wound on Dean's thigh.

“I’ve had way worse,” Dean shrugs, slipping into bragging-big-brother mode. “Should've seen me, Sammy, thing came runnin' towards me again, claws and fangs and everything ready to attack but I shot it straight in the heart.”

Sam scrunches his nose. His eyes are back on Dean's, his brow still knotted together a little, either inquiring, or just looking in a way that means he's not fully convinced that Dean's okay. God, it feels like Sam can see straight through him, like the kid can read everything straight off his face, his stance. Dean sits up a little straighter, makes his chest a little broader, tells himself the kid’s probably just concerned.

“Aren't ya proud of me, Sammy?” he says, trying to sound full of swagger, “my first werewolf, man.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth curl up a little at Dean's words nonetheless.

“No other injuries?” Sam asks, “just that cut?” and Dean shakes his head. Permanent damage can sometimes be hidden.

 

~

 

Dad’s out, gone to meet up with Caleb a couple towns over. Sam had passed on all Dad’s commands as Dean had gotten dressed - _don’t spend money on groceries, eat what’s left, help Dean to clean the guns, don’t forget to salt the doors and windows before you go to bed –_ and his eyes had followed Dean’s every movement. Dean had never felt so aware of his body, tried his best not to look self-conscious, made sure not to let his shoulders slump or pull his clothes on too quickly. He can't shake the feeling that Sam'll see right through him if he senses something about Dean is off, so he tries so make it as much of a regular day as possible. He tells Sam they can’t slack on their Saturday morning training just because Dad isn’t here, makes sure they both run fifty laps around the house, then do their push-ups and sit-ups. Afterwards, he makes them ham and cheese sandwiches and tries not to think too much about Dad making them for him last night. He cleans the guns Dad left while Sammy sits next to him on the couch, doing his homework. It's all familiar enough that he can work more or less on autopilot, act exactly as he always does, even if the memories of last night are on the back of his mind the whole time.

When all guns are squeaky clean, he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. He gets Sammy to spar with him a little, and when the sun starts to set, he cooks dinner for the both of them. Spaghetti with meatballs, Sam's favorite— of the options they had, at least. He makes sure to cook enough, in case Dad’ll be hungry when he gets back.

At half past nine on the dot, he tells Sam to brush his teeth and go to bed. Sam bitches a little about not being tired and Dad not being there anyway, and isn't all too difficult to play big brother when Sammy gets like that. They bicker back and forth for a while, spar some more on Sammy's bed, and afterwards, he realizes he truly didn't think of Dad for a while.

At eleven, Dad's still not back. Dean doesn't know what to make of it— mostly, he calls them when he can't make it back at the promised time. But maybe there weren't any phone booths nearby, or maybe he and Caleb have gone to check a lead in the middle of nowhere. Or he might just be on his way back right now. Dad's told him so many times not to worry when he doesn't call, but that does nothing to help the anxiety in his gut.

After salting the doors and windows, he contemplates trying to fix the broken TV, but instead he slumps down on the couch and jacks off to the memory of Dad’s hands all over his body; of the way he took Dean's dick in his hand and jerked him slow but steady; the look in his eyes after Dean had come down from his high, just before he'd leaned in to kiss him, his mouth warm and safe.

 

~

 

Dean wakes up at the sound of the front door opening. He grabs for his gun and stands up, aims at the open door to the hallway, but the sound of the heavy footsteps makes his heartbeat slow down. He lowers his gun just before Dad appears in the doorway.

“Didn't hear the Impala comin’, kid?” Dad asks with a rough voice, then gives him a slow half-smirk.

“Fell asleep,” Dean mumbles as he puts his gun on the coffee table. Dad takes his own gun out of his waistband, walks to the kitchen area and puts it next to the clean guns on the kitchen counter. He’s not exactly staggering, but Dean can tell he’s drunk; not completely wasted but definitely couple-beers-and-a-couple-whiskeys kinda drunk, and fuck, he shouldn't have been driving.

“Should've gone to bed, boy,” Dad says as he grabs a glass from the cabinet above the sink, lets the tap run a while before he fills his glass. Dean watches him throwing his head back as he drains the whole glass. _I_ _was waiting for you_ is on the tip of his tongue, but it sounds too desperate even in his head, and Dad must have figured, anyway. He keeps his mouth shut, walks into the kitchen area instead. He props himself up on the counter, right next to the sink, but can't do anything but watch Dad filling the glass again, lost for words.

Dad downs another glass, then puts it in the sink and looks at Dean. His eyes seem more or less clear, but the smell of beer and whiskey makes Dean's stomach clench.

He used to be hopeful when Dad would get home drunk, but now it's kind of unsettling, as if he didn’t want to face Dean sober, as if he wanted to forget.

What the hell do you say to your dad after doing what they did? How can you talk to him after he tried to walk away from it?

“You okay, Dean?” Dad asks, and Dean doesn't really know what he means, if he means  _after_   _last_   _night_ , so he just nods. Confirming is easy.

“What'd you and Sammy do today?”

He sounds calm,  _normal_ , not even drunk, really, no slur in his voice. He's leaning on the counter top, palms on the laminate, his right hand inches from Dean's thigh.

“Ran our laps,” Dean says, spreading his legs a little wider. “Then I made us lunch.” Dad's hand stays where it is. “Sammy did his homework, I cleaned the guns. Made us dinner.”

Dad nods, doesn't say a word. Maybe he's not even really listening. He doesn't comment on Sammy not helping Dean to clean the guns like he told him to.

“What'd you and Caleb do?”

“Helped him doin' some research on a couple deaths in Duluth. Probably some angry spirit.”

Dean hums in response, hands gripping the edge of the counter top tight, keeping himself from fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

Dad pushes himself away from the sink, unzips his leather jacket. Dean wants to reach out, grab the soft-worn lapels and bury himself in the warm, familiar leather, snuggle against Dad's broad chest. 

“Dad,” he says quietly, making Dad look back at him, and he just needs— _something_ , some sort of recognition that what happened last night is somehow okay, or at the very least, some sort of acknowledgement that it happened. He swallows hard, but he doesn't know what to ask so that Dad'll say what he needs to hear so bad. He's still within an arm's reach, but Dean feels nowhere near as bold as last night, doesn't dare to reach out. The look in Dad's eyes keeps him pinned to the counter.

“Please,” Dean whispers, unsure what he's even asking for at this point. He sees Dad's chest broaden as he inhales deeply, and he waits, anticipating, but then Dad sighs, shakes his head ever so slightly, shrugs his jacket off and turns away from him.

“Go to sleep, son.”  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This was such a bitch to finish, I swear to god. I'm not too happy with the way it turned out, but I just wanted to be done with it. At least I have a couple ideas on where to go from here.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading <3 Comments and kudos mean the world to me. Or come find me on [tumblr](http://www.saintedevote.tumblr.com) <3


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